


I'm Not Burning For You

by dametokillfor



Series: Cold As A Stone, Rich As A Fool [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Drugged Napoleon, F/M, Gen, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-21 07:09:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4819871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dametokillfor/pseuds/dametokillfor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4764971">It's Not About Angels</a>.</p><p>After a mission gone awry, Napoleon is drugged with a hallucinogenic, and Illya has to deal with being seen as Napoleon's lost lover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Not Burning For You

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been floating around in my head since I finished It's Not About Angels. It's set a few months after Illya has found out about Napoleon and Freddie. 
> 
> I'm also obsessed with the idea of Gaby being something of a badass, and scarily proficient with a gun. 
> 
> Title from Let It All Go, by Rhodes.

More than anything, it's incredibly inconvenient.

Solo is not a small man, and while Illya is inhumanly strong, he generally isn't required to prove that by carrying 6'1 of drugged American through an actual shootout. Gaby has them covered – and damn Illya loves that woman even more with a gun in her hand – but there are still bullets flying in every direction and Illya isn't certain he's managed to avoid them all. If Solo has been shot in the head, Illya will mourn, truly, but he'd also resent having to carry his dead weight. (Cowboy has not been shot in the head, Illya tells himself, he's too lucky for that). 

They're not sure exactly what happened. One moment Solo was working his magic on the young, trophy wife of a wealthy weapons developer. The next, he was on the floor, twitching and moaning. His eyes rolled back in his skull, his mouth foaming. The young woman had risen from her seat, and pointed a gun at his head on the floor and Illya had seen red.

Everything had happened so fast. There had been a gun shot and the woman had dropped her gun, grabbed her hand. Her security had soon made themselves known, and Illya had plowed through three men before scooping Solo from the floor and running with him.

Gaby is close behind them, her uncanny aim dropping the last few guards to their knees. (“I will be no good.” She had insisted when Illya and Napoleon had offered to teach her, and now she's a better shot than the pair of them). 

There's a car waiting for them, inconspicuous enough for them to blend in with the traffic, yet powerful enough for Gaby to get the drop on anyone that may chase them. Illya bundles Solo into the back of the dark car, while Gaby climbs in the front. Illya is about to make a move to join Gaby in the front when there's a hand at his wrist.

“Please.” Solo sounds small, weak, scared. He looks up at Illya through glazed eyes, his pupils blown.

Illya nods and climbs in the back with Solo. It's a squeeze with the pair of them, but Illya just manages to squeeze himself in, his legs spread wide and head bowed. Solo leaning heavily on his side, head resting on his shoulder, eyes closed now. He reaches across and grabs Illya's knee, squeezes it. Illya looks down at his hand, contemplating if Solo should be allowed use of it once he regains his senses.

“Thank you.” Solo says, turning his head into Illya's neck, pressing his lips against it. 

“Solo, what are you -?”

“Not Solo.” He whispers, against Illya's neck, “Not to you. Jones. Napoleon. Not Solo.”

Jones. Solo had said something about that before, about a life before this one. Illya had been talking with him about Gaby, about how hard it was to breathe without her, how he was compromised, how he didn't know what to do. Solo had laughed, clapped him on his shoulder and told him to tell her he loved her, that he can't let a girl like that go because she's one of a kind. She's his soulmate. Illya – morbidly curious – had asked Napoleon if he really believed in soulmates. _Solo doesn't, not when Jones lost his._

“You're so cold.” Solo tells him, nuzzling into his neck, “You were always so warm. Why are you so cold?”

“Climate?” Illya offers.

Solo laughs. It's not like his condescending laughter at Illya's jokes, or failures. It's not the fake laughter he uses to charm the wealthy elite and the beautiful. It's pure and real, like sunshine. Illya feels warmer, safer. 

“You always were funny, Freddie.” 

And Illya's suspicions are confirmed. Gaby meets his eye in the rear view mirror, looks sad and hurt for him, for Solo.

Solo pulls back from Illya's neck, looks up at him properly. Illya doesn't know how Solo is seeing that other man in him. The good, sweet, honorable man that he fell in love with. The man with hope in his eyes, and nothing but love for Napoleon. Illya is older, hardened by what he's seen. There's no innocence left in his eyes. His blue eyes are ice, whereas Freddie White's were blue skies. 

Solo lifts a hand, traces over Illya's face. Fingers running across a face he must know so well, following a path he must think he has kissed a thousand times. He hesitates at Illya's scar, a reminder that life is serious and jokes are unacceptable. 

“A new scar.” Solo whispers, “I want to taste it.”

And Illya freezes. He has made his peace with Cowboy's proclivities, even with the way he watches him sometimes when he thinks Illya doesn't notice. This is too far, that touch is too far. 

“Maybe when the guards stop watching us.” Solo grins, nods at Gaby. 

Illya wonders how he sees her. A foreign guard, one of the men who jail people like him, who beat and bloody his kind. Illya can't see her face, but he can see the smile in Gaby's eyes. She's German, of course she's going to be cast unfairly in their friend’s hallucination. 

“Maybe.” Illya agrees, quietly. 

He hopes it won't come to that. Denying Solo could break him, indulging him could break them. He doesn't want to make it more awkward if Solo comes back to himself.

(He will come back to himself.)

Napoleon’s arm drops from Illya's face, rests at his shoulder. He buries himself against Illya's chest. 

“I'm so tired, Freddie.”

Illya can’t help the small smile that creeps across his lips. Napoleon sounds so broken. He lifts his own arm and pulls Solo closer to him. He holds him close against his chest. It's what Freddie would do, what Solo expects, needs right now.

“Sleep, cowb - Napoleon.” Illya tells him, trying to soften his accent. (He has tried to mimic an American accent before. Napoleon had laughed so hard, Illya thought he was going to pass out.)

“Promise you'll be here when I wake up.” Napoleon begs him, his voice soft and pained, “Because you haven't for so long.” 

Illya's heart clenches, hurting for his friend, “I will be here.”

“Because I don't want to wake up alone again.” Solo whispers, “Not when she gets to wake up to your, to his eyes, and hands and kisses.”

And it's too quiet and it's cruel and it's selfish and Illya wants to hate him for it. Napoleon has no right to make him feel guilty for not being in love with him.

Instead he holds Napoleon tight to him, presses his lips into Napoleon's hair and whispers sorry. 

“I don't want to fall for him, Freddie.” Napoleon whispers, “I don't want to hate her, because she's so _good_ , and I can't love him, and I need you here to stop it.”

And Gaby's eyes are sad, and Napoleon’s are wet and why couldn't Solo have just been shot with an actual bullet? Or sleeping pills? Anything but this. 

“He is not good enough for you.” Illya tells him and it's surreal to be talking about himself in the third person, in a softened accent, but then nothing makes much sense right now.

“He does have appalling taste in fashion.” Solo chuckles quietly into Illya's chest, “And his hair is like a helmet. I'm pretty certain having sex with him is like fucking a robot.”

There's a quiet giggle from Gaby in the front. A small huff from Illya, which he tries to disguise as a laugh. 

“God, Freddie, I need to sleep.” Napoleon groans again, yawning this time. 

“Sleep then,” Illya tells him, tightening his arms around Napoleon, “I promise I will stay with you.” 

“I love you.”

And Illya knows he’s talking to Freddie, to the version of Illya that he’s picturing in his head, but it hurts to hear Napoleon telling him such a thing. It hurts not being able to say it back, not being able to give Napoleon even the tiniest bit of give on this thing. 

Before Illya can worry about having to respond, about having to say anything, he hears soft snoring coming from his chest. Napoleon’s eyes are closed, his breathing has evened out. 

“Are you okay, Illya?” Gaby asks, quietly.

Illya hesitates, “He is drugged. He isn’t thinking straight.”

And he knows he’s in denial, and they’ll both go back to being partners and almost friends and nothing will be said in the morning. They won’t talk about Napoleon admitting he’s struggling with his feelings, they won’t talk about how Illya and Gaby will keep their distance around Napoleon for a spell. Napoleon will burn through the drug, the fever and Illya will be by his side through the night because he’s promised to.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to come yell at me on [Tumblr](http://damnstevens.tumblr.com).


End file.
